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 |    My random thoughts and reactions to my everyday life. The voices like a forum. |
| I do not know quite what happened or when , but my hubby and I now qualify for seniors' discounts at some venues. This creates a quandary; in order to save money, but not face, we have to admit to our age. HMMMM..... We definitely do not consider ourselves to be old. In this day and age ,when people as a whole are living longer and healthier lives why are 'young seniors', those in their fifties, like moi, considered 'old'?? It's so true that age is just a perception! "Maturity" is very objective/subjective, and I object! Whew, a few years have skittered by since I composed this biography block. Those "fifties" are in the rear view mirror and they are distant, fond memories. Oh, I do not plan to stop writing any time soon. |
| PROMPT May 2nd What smell or sounds brings back great memories of your childhood? The rhythmic slapping of a skipping rope against pavement evokes memories of school recesses. Feet clad in sneakers beat a repetitive tattoo. Chanting of rhymes floated in the air and encouraged the skipper to keep pace. As the tempo increased the skipper's breathing became more laboured with panting. Sometimes, the rubber soles of our shoes squeaked as we miss-stepped or slid. None of the songs made any sense, but they rhymed and were simple to memorize. Everyone accepted that the faster the singing the faster the skipping. This was a test of endurance after all. Sooner or later, the skipper would make a mistake. She might fail to clear the moving rope, or two-foot a landing. Perhaps she'd stumble, or miss-judge the speed of the rope turning over her head and slipping under her feet. I can still hear these chants, but I wonder if my feet and legs remember what to do. I suppose I once had coordination. Miss Susie had a tugboat her tugboat had a bell. Miss Susie went to heaven her tugboat went to ... Hello operator Give me #9 And if you disconnect me I'll kick you from ... Now if the poor gasping skipper did something to disrupt the round and round of the rope, immediate silence descended. The slapping, the rat-a-tat-tat of the pounding feet, and the chanting ceased. This lull only lingered for as long as it took to introduce the next girl willing to make her own jumping record. During outdoor recess, muted shouts and squeals punctuated the air. Rattling from the metal perimeter fence competed with thuds and hoots. Rarely, the shrill screech of a handheld whistle sliced through the air. Laughter echoed all around us. From somewhere distant to our schoolyard, horns honked, sirens wailed, dogs yipped and yowled, vehicle traffic hummed. We played in our own protected bubble. When I close my eyes, I recall humid summer days spent swimming at Eddie's Pool, a local municipal hangout. Every excursion meant careening along on my bike with my towel flapping from its perch around my perspiring neck and my long, loose hair streaming behind me. Brakes were for sissies and we leapt from our rolling bikes as we bumped over the curb and guided the still spinning wheels up against the chain-link fence. I can hear the chorus of clinks vibrating from the hundreds of bikes waiting for our return. As we approached the outdoor pool, the roar intensified. Voices, squeals, shouts, laughter mingled with a P.A. system blaring upbeat rock music. Splashes competed with the steady monotonous hum of a filter. Just like the school playground, the shrill blast of a whistle could bully its insistent way into and above the raucous revelry. Anybody who was anybody graced Eddie's with their presence. The unmistakable smell of chlorine will still cause my eyes to tear and transport me back in time to Eddie's Pool. Those were great times, memorable times. |
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